


These Dry Bones

by Pluffiefriend



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Cogsworth Character Study, Gen, Minor Character Death, POV, Post-Curse, Pre-Movie, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21948931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pluffiefriend/pseuds/Pluffiefriend
Summary: The curse comes with casualties. Cogsworth remembers and waits.
Relationships: Cogsworth & Lumiere (Disney)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	These Dry Bones

The first day was the worst.

The problem with partially enchanted houseware was determining who was enchanted and what was inanimate. There were givens like magic mirrors, magic roses, magic atlases but then there were much harder ones like books, plates, and furniture. As the head of staff it was by default on Cogsworth's metaphoric shoulders to sort out the servants in the chaotic aftermath. 

Lumiere claims that it wasn’t really all that bad given the circumstances, well he is lucky he is made of brass and actually has parts which resemble legs and arms. That ridiculous spectacle always had the poorest memory and the best hindsight. But a clock remembers the way that time can’t be forgotten: What it was like, the ebb and flow of bewilderment, hope, confusion, and despair. 

He remembers with clarity the first moment he saw his reflection. The startling irony that he had a face and hands that were not his face nor his hands. He remembers trying to pass a mantle (a decoration? Why could he move?) over the roman numerals on his face, like scars embossed on his skin.

Perhaps more than the actual appearance of people-things, what surprised Cogsworth the most was the transparency of emotions. That when he felt frazzled the springs and gears would pop out spontaneously or when his patience wore thin the hands on his face would tick ever so loudly. Each knick-knack had a tell: a candelabra’s flame could be a blaze or a smolder, a teapot’s water could be pleasant or scalding, even a coat rack could twirl its hangers when in a particularly good mood.

The prince, the Beast, was no exception.

The first day was a massacre.

They don’t talk about it now, there is more than enough pain to carry as it is, but Cogsworth knows where Chef Cuisinier keeps the snapped spoons and shattered glasses, where Plumette preserves the splintered handles and feathered ashes. He knows where Mrs. Potts has buried the shards of six of her children, the ones that did not escape the initial rampage with just a chip. There was so much screaming as if the castle and not just its inhabitants were raging against the curse. If it was not for their sacrifice and Lumiere, brave and reckless and idiotic Lumiere, who pleaded and fumed and smoked the Beast into unconsciousness— 

It’s said that love that will break the spell. His candlestick friend often waxes poetic about the pleasures of romance. Cogsworth is a pragmatist (and a coward) so it is grief that he holds the closest. The thorns of sorrow remind him to bleed and ache for hope. The closets and cupboards cluttered with broken hearts compel him to fight. So, like the helpless ornament and antique and rubbish he is becoming he watches over this mausoleum praying for a day of resurrection.


End file.
